I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: How could she *not* believe?  *She* saw Daddy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night!


**Title: **I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus  
**Author:** Amory Sparkly Bat  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings: **future!fic, fluff, happy feelings (what a warning, huh? LOL)  
**Pairing:** Kurt/Karofsky  
**Word Count:** 2,869

**A/N:** If you would like to read my adult fanfic (I post only R and below on this site), you can find it at  
**sparklybat [dot] livejournal [dot] com **  
(just replace the brackets with the symbols)

**I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus**

"Oh, thank God, you're home." The relief in his voice was so strong you would have thought he'd just been rescued from a train wreck. That was not a good voice. That was a 'I told Kiki we could make cookies and we blew up the oven' voice. That was a 'Why did the washing machine overflow? I only put half a bottle of detergent in it!' voice. That was a 'Uh, Kurt? How, exactly, *do* you get glitter out of the carpet?' voice.

Kurt dropped the grocery bags with a little sigh. God save him from whatever domestic travesty Dave had managed to pull off this time. From the petrified look on his face, it couldn't be good. Dammit, he'd probably put foil-wrapped hotdogs in the microwave again.

"It's nice to appreciated," he said dryly, lip twitching in amusement as Dave shot him a glare. "What's wrong, big boy? Kianna walk in on you in the shower again? I *told* you, baby—just tell her that her Ken doll is transgendered. We already had that discussion when Aunt Joanna became Uncle Joe. She'll understand."

Dave shook his head, looking a little confused. "What? Oh, the dick thing. No, that's fixed. I drew a penis on Ken with a Sharpie so she doesn't ask that anymore. This is much worse."

Kurt's mouth dropped open in disbelief, a little huff of laughter slipping out. Dear God. "You did *what* to Ken?"

His husband just waved the comment away, looking down at the crumpled piece of notebook paper in his hand. Really, if he was writing grocery lists on scrap paper again, Kurt was going to kill him. That was what he had bought the white board for—

"We've got a problem, Kurt."

Kurt just shook his head as he began to unload the bags, amused. "Seriously, Dave. You drew a *penis* on her *doll*?"

Dave looked back up, glaring. "Give me a break, would you? I was tired of being compared to a sexless man on the Toys R Us version of steroids. I mean, how do you live up to pecs like that? They're unnatural."

"That would be because they are on a plastic toy, love," Kurt said idly as he put the milk in the fridge.

"Hey, at least I didn't draw it on his *face*."

Kurt looked up from the bag his was rifling through, wincing. "True. Good job restraining your Neanderthal instincts." He frowned. "So if the issue is *not* that you have a penis, or hair down there, or ride a motorcycle even though Mrs. Johnson says they're super, duper dangerous, what's the matter?"

"Well," Dave said in a dry voice, "let's just say that me getting up at five o'clock every morning to intercept the mail has finally paid off." He held up the paper. "Hubbie o' mine, we have got ourselves a list."

Kurt's eyes widened, a smiling spreading over his face as he glanced down at the table where a torn envelope was laying, an address scrawled across it in big letter and a stamp with a misshapen Christmas tree on it drawn in the corner.

Mr. Santa Claws

His Woorkshop

North Poll (where the oh zone is bad)

His lip twitched in amusement. Well, at least Mrs. Johnson was teaching *something* in that Kindergarten class.

He shook his head, chuckling as he moved around the table to lean up against Dave's big frame, tucking his arm through his husband's as he looked down at the list. "Well, I am sure that it is very grateful to be saved from its fate. I'm sure that the recycling bin at the Post Office is more packed than the homeless shelter on 7th Street. Not comfortable living. But why, exactly, do you look like you just saw your daughter try and parachute off the roof with a bed sheet." His eyes narrowed suddenly in suspicion. "She *didn't* try to parachute again, did she?"

Dave glanced over at him. "Hm? Oh. No. I think she's through that stage. Now she wants to fly a broomstick." He shook his head. "I *told* you not to take her to see _Wicked_."

Kurt frowned. "Yeah, somehow I don't think I broomstick will be any better than a bed sheet."

"Don't worry about it. I nailed all the upstairs windows shut so we shouldn't be having any more flying attempts any time soon." He sighed loudly. "It's this list, Kurt… I just don't know what to do, baby."

Kurt gave his husband a peck on the cheek, amused. "You know, sweetheart, just because she wants us to buy her a concrete mixing truck doesn't mean that we actually *have* to do it. I mean, I bet we can find a toy version. They have toy garbage trucks, why not concrete mixers? Besides, we bought her a pony last year. Literally. I think we've done pretty good. She can live without a concrete truck."

Dave rolled his eyes, lightly rubbing Kurt on the top of the head, earning himself a shriek of protest. "I'm not worried about the damn concrete mixer, baby. *Keep reading.*"

Kurt sniffed, smoothing his hair back down as he leaned over, doing his best to decipher the big, messy letters. A concrete mixing truck. A pink football. A fashionista Barbie. A sparkly purple fishing pole. A Go-go Glamour Girl jewelry set. New hiking boots. And—

"Oh, dear," Kurt murmured, frowning. "That… could be a problem."

Dave rubbed at his face tiredly. "Yeah. I tried calling the North Pole, but I didn't get through. The phones were totally overloaded. And I'm betting the cell service sucks up there, so there's no getting ahold of Santa that way."

Kurt sighed deeply. "Maybe we should just tell her—"

"No," Dave said sharply, shaking his head. "No, Kurt. I know that you're a realist to the core when it comes to believing stuff, but she's five years old. We have to let her believe. Reality will get to her soon enough. Let her have faith like a child while she still can." He gave a weary smile. "I still remember the day Puckerman walked up and announced to the whole third grade football team that Christmas was stupid because Santa Claus wasn't real and Jesus was dead. Half the team cried for an hour. Over the Santa thing, obviously. Your step-brother was the only one who hadn't realized Jesus was dead. Apparently he thought the manger scene they set up outside the mall every year in protest of commercialized Christmas was real."

Kurt snickered and hugged him. "Relax, love. I was just going to say that maybe we should tell her that Santa moves too fast to be seen or something. You know, since he flies around the world and all. Speed of light or something."

"Yeah," Dave said with a laugh, "but then we'd have to explain how he has time to go to every mall in the country and let a bunch of kids sit on his lap."

Kurt smiled. "True. Man… this reminds me of how hard we worked so that Brittany Pierce could still believe."

"I didn't know that you knew Brittany when you were little," Dave said as he hugged him back, nuzzling gently at the top of his head.

"I didn't," Kurt replied dryly. "This was junior year of high school."

"Oh, wow…" Dave said, looking amused. "That's, uh… interesting. And here I thought Finn thinking that the words 'born again Christian' meant baby Jesus was reborn at the East Lima Mall every year was bad."

Kurt chuckled. "Yeah, we jumped through hoops to make sure she still believed. We even went and sat on the lap of some old guy wearing a beard and a fat suit at the mall.:

"Hey," Dave said, feigning a hurt expression. "You've been going around sitting on other boys' laps?"

"Only Santa's," he assured his husband with a wide grin. "What can I say? That red suit just turns me on. I like my boys big and wearing clothes that resemble Sue Sylvester's lucky red track suit."

Dave chuckled. "I can't believe that you guys pulled off Santa being real. How the hell did you do it?"

"Well, actually, we got Coach Beiste to dress up like Santa," Kurt admitted, shrugging. "Unconventional, but it worked."

"Oooh, bad image," Dave said with a wince. "I know this makes me a small-minded homophobe, but I can't help but feel that Santa is *not* supposed to wear lipstick."

Kurt laughed aloud. "I'll give you that one. Santa should not do drag. He just doesn't have the figure for it."

"I know how that feels," Dave said with a smirk.

Kurt paused, cocking his head a little as he looked Dave up and down, a wicked grin on his face. Oh, yeah. This was gonna be good. "Dave?" he said sweetly, immediately making his husband look at him with great suspicion. Good to know he had him well trained. "Just how bad to you want Kiki to believe in Santa?"

o o o o o o

Dave winced at the pain in his back as he dropped the enormous black trash bag he had swung over his shoulder with a thud. God, that was a lot of presents. And these were just the ones from 'Santa.' Their little girl might have been born into poverty but she definitely lived like a princess now.

He stretched his shoulders, trying to work out the muscle he'd pulled just carrying all that crap from where they'd stashed it in Kurt's craft closet. Next year they were *totally* just telling her.

Dave yanked his beard down, rubbing at his face. Damn, that thing tickled. He glanced around quickly, searching for signs of his baby girl. Kurt better have lured her out of her bed like he was supposed to, because if Dave had climbed into this rather suffocating suit for something, he was totally going to wash every one of his husband's designer sweaters with his red boxers then pretend it had been an accident.

Dave yanked open the bag and began to pull out presents. Thank God Kurt was such a decorating fanatic. If they *hadn't* had the biggest tree in the damn universe, he'd would have had to leave half of them around the coffee table.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

Dave started slightly, one of the packages slipping out of his gloved hands. He winced. Hopefully that was not the one with the hamster in it. He turned around, smiling, and let out a little laugh as he saw his husband leaning in the doorway with a cute little smirk on his face and nothing on his chest Kurt made a little come-hither motion with his finger then ran it suggestively down his bare chest to the hem of his red, silk pajama pants. Mmm. Nice.

"Oh, no need to call the police, son," Dave replied in a low voice, a wide grin peeking through his big white beard. "I'm just here to drop off this loot—the Feds are on my trail and I don't wanna get caught with it. I'll leave your flatscreen for my elves to steal."

Kurt laughed. "Letting Little People do your dirty work these days, Santa? Not very politically correct of you."

Dave spread his arms wide, trying his best to look innocent with a giant beard covering half his face. "Oh, trust me, I never see a cent of it. They donate it all to that TV show about Little People that rescue pit bulls from dog fighters or whatever." He shook a finger at his lover. "I am politically correct to the core, young man! Santa is sworn not to discriminate against anyone, be it for race, gender, *or* height!"

"What about sexual orientation?" Kurt questioned, lip twitching in amusement. "What's your policy on *that*, Santa?"

Dave put his hands on his hips. "Are you questioning my stance on equality, son?"

"Oh, well," Kurt said in an overly innocent voice as he pointed a finger straight up. "I was just wonderin' cause, well, I see some mistletoe up there." Dave glanced up letting out a laugh as he saw that there was, indeed a little ball of mistletoe hanging above him. When had he stuck that up there, the sneaky little brat. "And since you and me seem to be the only ones around, Santa well…" He leaned against the door suggestively, a wicked smile on his face. "I think it would only be politically correct of you to give me my kiss."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Is this where I make a joke involving the words 'ho, ho, ho'?" he questioned with a grin.

Kurt burst into laughter and spread his arms wide, that delicate little frame way too inviting for Santa's own good. "C'mere, Santa. Give a boy his kiss. You *know* I've been good."

Dave pretended to consider it. "I don't know, son. I'm not sure how good of a boy you've been. I'm pretty sure I've seen *your* name on my naughty list a few times."

A pout came over Kurt's face, his lower lip sticking out cutely. "Oh, but Santa, I have such a thing for big men in red suits." He giggled. "I'll sit in your lap later…"

"Ah, definitely a naughty boy," Dave said in amusement. "You know what? I think that I *will* take my kiss, son." With a hearty laugh he moved across the room, yanking down his beard as he wrapped his arms tightly around his husband, lifting the smaller man up into the air a few inches as he kissed Kurt deeply, sucking on those soft lips as his tongue slipped into the other man's mouth. After a long moment then pulled apart and Dave set Kurt down lightly, both men laughing so hard they had to lean against each other for support.

"So," Kurt said through his giggles, reaching up to run a hand down Dave's face, tugging at his beard. "Whaddya think, Santa?"

Dave smiled at him, cupping that pretty face in his big, gloved hands as he leaned down until the tips of their noses were touching. "I think that all I want for Christmas is you." He turned his head, stealing a quick kiss before he pulled away with a wide grin.

Kurt blushed slightly, laughter spilling from his lips. "You know what, Santa? *I* think that could be arranged."

Dave chuckled, giving his husband another peck on the lips. "You can sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas, young man. Because I'm gonna give you *everything* your list."

A raised eyebrow. "Even if it's a concrete mixing truck?"

Dave stifled a laugh. "Okay, I draw the line at construction equipment. But other than that… the North *Pole's* the limit, son." He made a quick grab at Kurt's crotch, making the other man giggle.

"Oh, Santa, you're such a tease!"

"Oh, I'm no tease, son. I've decided that you *are* a very good boy. And you know that very good boys get naughty presents."

Kurt grinned widely then turned on his heel, winking back at Dave as he headed toward the staircase. "Well, I guess I'll just see you upstairs then, Santa. I'm pretty sure you can manage to get from the chimney to my window."

Dave chuckled. "I think all the windows are nailed shut, son."

"Oh, but Santa," Kurt said with a laugh, "you're *magic*!"

Dave smiled as he watched Kurt climb the stairs, that cute little butt framed so nicely in those silk pajamas…

A little giggle came from the kitchen and Dave turned just in time to see a little curly haired head disappear behind the counter. He chuckled, smiling as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumples piece of paper covered in Crayola scribbles. A concrete mixer. A Disney Princess bedspread. A pink football. A fashionista Barbie. A sparkly purple fishing pole. A Go-go Glamour Girl jewelry set. New hiking boots.

And, more than anything in the whole wide world, to see Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.

Dave glanced toward the stairs, then back to the kitchen, a warm feeling growing in his heart. It looked like they were *all* getting what they wanted for Christmas tonight. He put the list away carefully. This was one for the scrapbook.

But seriously—if next year Kiki said she wanted to go on the Polar express, they were *not* renting a damn train.

"No, I swear it, Mrs. Johnson!" the little girl said with a big smile as she jumped up and down. "I saw Daddy kissin' Santa Claus that night!"

Mrs. Johnson made a strange noise, looking uncomfortable. "Kianna, Santa is not real. You *couldn't* have seen you… Daddy… kissing Santa Claus."

Kiki put her hands on her hips and stuck her chin in the hair, a superior look on her face. "But I did! Right under the mistletoe!"

Mrs. Johnson just sighed and shook her head at that and Kiki grinned broadly. Her teacher could believe what she wanted. She *knew* that he was real. Because *she* had seen Daddy kissin' Santa Claus that night.

The End.

Merry Christmas everybody!


End file.
